the art of guilt
by dezel
Summary: Trying to shove away the feeling that nags at his heart and the words that start to rush through his mind. That doesn't matter anymore. It's okay, it's okay.


_This has two reasonings to it, and I wanted to add more but decided how it ended was just fine._

 _One, I wanted to write something about Puritan America and how it could affect today's America (not just the person, but the country. Personally, I think it shows in some aspects, like our weird relationship with sex)._

 _And two, "Christian" America. We have the homophobic, Southern Bible Belt gun-totin' stereotype going on. I grew up in a household almost similar to that, but in the desperate, cold Midwest of the United States, right near Canada's borders. There is no way someone like America to go unaffected in a lot of aspects. Christianity here, or at least the brand I was taught, says guilt is a good thing and self hate is the only way to god's good graces. I have a lot of horror stories about growing up gay in the United States, in just the church I went to. Most of anything mentioned here is based off of personal experience, and stories I've heard from others, older, younger and the same age._

 _ **On that note, this will contain very offensive material. It touches on rather sensitive subjects such as Christianity, homosexuality, and partial Puritan America. This is your only warning to click the back button.**_

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Russia pushes America against the wall, hands slipping up his white sweatshirt, bunching it up as he feels along the muscled, warm skin and fingers circle along perked nipples. America stifles back a moan, trying to shove away the feeling that nags at his heart and the words that start to rush through his mind. That doesn't matter anymore. It's okay, _it's okay._

Russia pulls America's top off, and tosses it to the side. He grunts as he rests his hands on Russia's shoulders, thrusting his hips upwards and he shoves Russia away with as much as he could. The only person in the world that can withstand his strength _is_ Russia, and maybe that's why America likes him on some level. Maybe that's why they're here now.

Russia falls onto the bed, and America climbs on top of him. The moon slips into Russia's bedroom, illuminating their surroundings and America wonders if God is watching. He hopes God is not watching him slip and stumble, falling straight down into the pits of sin and the arms of another man. God, he hopes he'll be forgiven.

He rubs Russia through his pants, and there's a moan from Russia. America grins a little, the noise encourages him to continue. America is privy to secrets others are not, no matter who sleeps with Russia, no matter who is allied with him; only America can see what that scarf covers. Only America can see into Russia's most secret parts of life. Those little truths people wish to deny, those little truths even _Belarus_ will never see.

America bites down at a scar, and traces his tongue along the rough skin. Russia is so weirdly beautiful, the moonlight casts shadows upon his face, enunciating his sharp cheekbones that seems to be so common among the Slavic's. The way they have such distinct features, America can pick them out from a crowd easily but even outside of that, he'd be able to find Russia quickly. His hair is blond enough to be white, his eyes such a light blue, they're almost purple. People cower from him because he's strange. Children are drawn to him because he is childish, and he is so gentle it's almost laughable. This is the man whose own fields are watered with blood in it's long, complicated history.

America is no different. Except, he's charismatic and people are drawn to him because he's cheerful. He's childish, and everyone who knows personally find him annoying and sometimes, scarier than Russia could ever be. But that's okay, because fear equates respect. Right?

Russia curls his fingers into America's straw blond hair and pulls him, sharply and their lips meet. Teeth click together as they kiss sloppily, saliva escaping. Russia's hands leave his hair after a moment and move down his back, and gropes at his ass, pulling him close. Their hips meet, and clothed erections pressed together and America moans this time, into the kiss.

America entangles his hands into Russia's hair this time, tugging and pulling lightly as they continue to kiss, and Russia continues to massage and grope at his ass, squeezing somewhat hard. They grind against each other, heavy moans escaping as they pull apart for air and America licks his dry lips, trying to get them wet.

"Fuck," America gasps out, a few minutes later, shuddering as cums. He rolls off of Russia for a moment, forgetting that Russia still hadn't gotten off.

"What are you doing?" Russia grumbles a little and America gives him a tired look, confused for a brief second.

America reaches down between their bodies, sliding his hand between their bodies and into Russia's pants. He grips at his dick, rubbing and stroking the best he can, despite the restraint of the fabrics. Russia gives a thrust of his hips, grunting a little as he cums now and America pulls his hand out.

As Russia sleeps, America smokes. He'll be damned for sure, now. For years and years, he tried to separate himself from his people's beliefs. Years and years, he pretended he was better than that. There were things he disagreed with, there were things that made him bitter and angry. Yet, here he is, a sinking feeling in his gut and lungs constricting.

Maybe, if he's lucky, before dawn arrives, God will have decided his fate and hell will have cracked open to drag him beneath. Maybe, if he's lucky, Russia will wake up and tell him it's okay. Maybe, if he's lucky, he'll feel the pride his own people feel.

Maybe, if he's lucky, he won't feel like he's drowning like he had when they threw him in the water, stones tied to his body.


End file.
